


the world's a little blurry or maybe it's my eyes

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Beck is dead tho don't worry, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Not Spider-Man: Far From Home Compliant, Not Spider-Man: Far From Home Mid-Credits Scene Compliant, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22098265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Four and a half years after he died, Tony Stark is resurrected.He's definitely not stupid enough to think that everything will be exactly the same as he remembers it, but if there's one thing he can count on, it's the fact that Peter Parker will be deliriously happy to see him.Right?Wrong, apparently. Very wrong.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 24
Kudos: 335
Collections: Anonymous





	the world's a little blurry or maybe it's my eyes

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this thing in like three days after not writing anything for over a year aaaaaa  
> But, okay! A few things to keep in mind about this fic:  
> Tony and Pepper are/were not together, and Morgan was never born  
> Beck did not reveal Peter's identity to everyone  
> And I changed a few additional details about the events of Far From Home but kept most of them the same
> 
> And I believe that's it! I hope you enjoy!  
> (title is from Billie Eilish's "ilomilo")

As far as resurrections were concerned, Tony was pretty sure he was having the standard experience.

There was disbelief. There was joy, sadness, uneasiness, and some anger thrown in there, too. It was overwhelming, sure, but _expected_ , and so Tony took comfort in that. In the back of his mind, he was preparing some tips for the next guy that Strange decided to bring back from the dead, like he was _Tony Stark, The Walking/Talking Guidebook For The Recently Resurrected._

The first few and arguably most important tips were, in no real order:

  1. Not many things will be how you remember it. The world will have changed while you were gone, and the people in it, too. This is a fact that you can do absolutely nothing about.
  2. There will be lots of tears. (As long as you weren’t an asshole when you were alive.) Don’t try and stay composed, because it definitely will not work.
  3. In this strange (awful? pretty awful) new world, half of everyone you meet has also died. Go to a support group or two; you won’t regret it.



And, in Tony’s personal guidebook:

  * Peter Parker will be deliriously happy when he sees you.



Except — he wasn’t.

Now, Tony hadn’t thought that he’d been _assuming_ — he’d learned the saying early enough, and he knew to avoid that whenever possible. But in his mind it had just been a given that Peter would be ecstatic to see him, overjoyed at the fact that he was _back_ , he was _okay._ The same old bubbly, energetic, talkative Peter Parker. And yeah, okay, that conflicted with tip 1, because obviously Peter couldn’t be the same after four and a half years. (Another somewhat circumstantial tip: Don’t think about how long you’ve been gone. Don’t think about how much time you’ve missed, how much _life_. It would drive even the sanest man crazy.) But come _on,_ if Tony couldn’t count on Peter being happy to see him, what could he count on?

Nothing, apparently. A good, solid zero things.

It was Tony’s first full day out of the medical center (yet another tip: People will be expecting you to drop dead again at any second. Even if you have a wizard there, backing you up, saying that you’re fine) and he was at the Avengers facility upstate, in _a_ lab, that certainly wasn’t _his_ lab (which, okay, he couldn’t blame anyone for that, the building had been completely rebuilt after the whole final giant battle), working on a piece of tech to help his right arm regain some functionality. The limb wasn’t totally useless; he could weakly squeeze things, and could lift it maybe half a foot, but doctors had assured him that it would get better with physical therapy. Which he apparently _had_ to go to, according to Rhodey and Happy, and he couldn’t just make himself a brand new arm. So he wasn’t doing that; he was just working on a brand new _hand_.

Was it a clever loophole? Absolutely not. 

Did he care? Definitely not.

Operating with only his left arm was something to get used to (his right was tucked safely into a sling, for no real reason other than he didn’t feel like having it hang limply at his side), but with FRIDAY’s help (her _Hello, boss_ had sounded excited, he could’ve sworn) the progress wasn’t the slowest. It took his mind off of things, as well, which was an added bonus.

He hadn’t spoken to Peter. Happy had talked about him plenty; the kid had graduated as the valedictorian of his class, and he was at MIT now, doing just as well, and he seemed to like the campus and the city and the people. Tony was, of course, proud of him — his heart warming once he heard about the MIT part specifically. The silence was a little out of character, a little strange, but hey, college life was busy. Projects and exams and parties and dating (that one made something twinge in Tony’s brain, but he ignored it) and probably some new things he didn’t even know about. They’d see each other eventually, no doubt, and Peter would probably come bounding into the lab, saying, _Hey, Mr. Stark!_ like he always did.

(Apparently, rule 1 didn’t apply when it came to Peter.)

What he absolutely _didn’t_ expect was to hear FRIDAY’s accented voice saying, _Boss, Peter Parker is coming down to the lab_ , and then, a few moments later, to see Peter _hesitantly_ exiting the elevator and walking further into the room.

Besides his obvious nervousness, a few other things about the kid hit Tony all at once. He was, for one, not exactly a _kid_ anymore; he was taller (though not by much), leaner, his hair longer, a bit on the shaggy side. There were dark circles under his eyes, immediately telling Tony that he wasn’t getting nearly enough sleep, and a slowness to his movements that also demonstrated that.

With all the differences, there were some familiarities, too. Peter was dressed in a t-shirt, jeans, and a jacket, and none of the clothes were form fitting; they were all a little baggy. Additionally, the t-shirt said, _I make horrible science puns, but only periodically_ , which was just — so very _Peter_ that Tony couldn’t help but smile at it.

However, that smile quickly disappeared when the first words out of Peter’s mouth weren’t a greeting of any sort, but instead: “What was the last thing I said to you on Titan?”

They weren’t close to each other — Peter was across the room, not even four feet away from the elevator yet, and Tony hadn’t moved from his spot, from where he was working on his hand. He was holding something, but his brain was absolutely skipping, malfunctioning just a little, because the contrast between expectation and reality was really throwing him.

Very eloquently, he said, “I — _what?_ ”

That was not the correct answer. Something about Peter’s stance turned slightly defensive, and he puffed up his chest, just a little, but that contradicted with how very obviously nervous he was. He asked again, just repeating himself, “What was the last thing I said to you on Titan?”

Tony’s brain was still short circuiting, but it was functional enough to provide him the answer to the question. So instead of asking _what_ again, he instead said, “I’m sorry.” His voice was softer than he intended, the memory of Peter crumbling beneath him at the edge of his mind, and the whole entire thing was threatening to play, like a movie stuck on repeat, from _I don’t feel so good_ to _I don’t want to go_ to _I’m sorry_.

But — the answer seemed to do something, the right thing, and Peter was visibly relaxing, before sprinting over to him and throwing his arms around him, pulling him into a tight, tight hug. Tony let out a soft _oof_ and a _hey, kid_ before returning it with his one good arm, burying his face in his hair, inhaling before he could stop himself, though Peter didn’t seem to notice. No, he was — crying, of course he was, and it didn’t take very long for Tony to start crying, too, though it wasn’t as much. They just stood there, for a long, long while, Peter tucked against his chest, crying into it, mumbling barely legible sentences that were all about missing him or being glad he was back, and Tony rubbing his back, comforting him the best he could.

Even after they spent the afternoon and evening together, Peter ending up helping him with his bionic hand for a little while before they ordered pizza and watched a movie, Tony couldn’t stop thinking about the _initial reaction_. Hesitance, nervousness, defensiveness, and _what was the last thing I said to you on Titan?_ That sure as shit wasn’t _delirious happiness_ and while Tony was a little disappointed, he was more on the concerned side.

By the time Peter had been gone for almost six hours and Tony was lying in bed (having made a _if you sleep, I’ll sleep_ deal with the kid), he’d rationalized the strange reaction away, thoroughly believing it was just part of the _disbelief_ that he’d experienced from almost everyone. There was a niggling in his brain telling him it was something more, something deeper, but he easily dismissed that, chalking it up to anxiety.

***

The rationalization held up pretty well, until he saw Peter again.

It was something like two weeks later, because Peter was busy with college life, and was apparently taking the maximum amount of classes that MIT would allow in one semester. They’d texted a few times, Tony being the one to begin the conversation with a picture of the progress of his bionic hand, but it wasn’t — _normal_. Although, the normal he was thinking of was based off of the year 2018 (before Thanos), when Peter was 16 years old and not 20, and he was also attending _high school_ , which was much easier than _MIT_. But _still_ , Peter usually answered back immediately, and enthusiastically. These responses were hours after Tony’s texts, and very minimal. A lot of _ya_ ’s and _okay_ ’s and _sounds good_ ’s. (Tony remembered Peter saying something about hating people who said _ya_ in text, but was pretty sure he’d sound like a _dorky old man_ if he brought it up.) He did, however, receive a, _Can I come over this weekend?_ at 3:37pm on a Thursday afternoon, which was familiar enough to make him smile for a minute or two before responding with, _Of course you can, Pete._ And the familiarity ended there, because by the end of the night, it was obvious Tony wasn’t going to get any kind of further response at all.

If FRIDAY were a sentient being, she probably would’ve asked him _why_ exactly he was obsessing over the texting patterns of a 20 year old — but she wasn’t. So she didn’t. And Tony definitely wasn’t going to consider that question all on his own.

It was 11am that Saturday when FRIDAY said, _Boss, Peter Parker is here,_ as Tony was standing in the communal kitchen of the upstate facility, the Keurig they had spread out all over the counter, in pieces, because he’d be _damned_ if he couldn’t use his big coffee mug with it. And instead of buying a new one (which he could obviously do), he decided to see if he could complete a project with only his left arm, without the help of FRIDAY or any of the high tech tools in the lab.

But, he paused for a moment to watch and wait for Peter, smiling when he saw him, though it faded a little once he got a good look at him.

The kid was nervous again. Not like before, where he looked like he’d absolutely bolt if Tony made one wrong move, but _still_. More nervous than he should be. Whatever kind of happy greeting Tony had been about to offer him died on his tongue — and would have to be resurrected by Strange if he wanted it to come back.

“Hey,” Peter said, carefully walking into the kitchen, his eyes flitting around the room before landing back on Tony. “Sorry, but, uh — what did you say to me after the whole thing with the ferry?”

Tony felt his eyebrows raise what felt like five feet, but his brain was already sorting through memories, trying to find the right answer, just to get that _scared puppy_ look off of the kid’s face. “I — said that you screwed the pooch, because you did, and I — I said that if you died, that was on me.” There was more that he had to say, but that thought was sobering enough to stop him, at least for a moment, so he could consider it. Funnily enough (humorlessly funny), that was exactly what had happened. Peter had died, and it _had_ been on Tony. Who knew he was a prophet.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Peter said, coming closer to him, setting his bookbag down on the kitchen island. “Even if I wasn’t with you, I still would’ve — it’s not your fault.”

Tony didn’t necessarily believe him, but he just nodded a little, accepting the words for now, and continuing with, “You — you told me you were 15, after I said you were 14, and I took the suit. You said you were nothing without it, and I said that if you weren’t anything without the suit, you shouldn’t have it.”

Peter nodded himself, seeming content with the answer, before he was coming all the way over to him, and — and giving him a hug. Again. Like he had a couple weeks prior, though this hug wasn’t quite as tight, and neither of them were crying. Tony was wondering what the hell that had been about, but having an armful of Peter Parker was distracting enough for him to let it slide.

And then, after they moved apart from each other, Peter was looking over the kitchen counter with a confused expression, before asking, “What did you do to the Keurig?”

So Tony explained ( _I can’t fit my favorite mug under here, so I’m making a few adjustments_ ) and Peter nodded appreciatively, surveying the chaos, before asking what he could do to help. And if that defeated the purpose of the whole thing, because Peter helping him was definitely using more than his left arm, well — oh well, he’d do another small project later.

Things ended up getting kind of out of hand, though. They _did_ make enough adjustments for Tony’s mug to fit, but they also made the machine able to add cream and sugar, _and_ it was controlled by FRIDAY, because she knew how everyone liked their coffee. Too much for a $100 Keurig? Definitely. But it made the kid smile, so Tony would’ve added a thousand other dumb gadgets to it, if Peter had wanted to.

They ended up down in the lab, of course, Tony continuing to work on his hand (it was more hand _and_ wrist now, but that was fine, it wasn’t the whole arm, and he was doing his physical therapy each week) and Peter doing some homework before joining him and helping him. They paused for dinner (the Thai place Peter always liked) before getting back to it, though they ended up looking at Peter’s newest suit that he’d made for himself.

“I think I’m getting pretty good at updating and advancing things,” he said, running his hand over the material, and it was an impressive piece of technology, but Tony couldn’t stop looking at the way Peter’s eyes were lighting up as he was talking. “I mean, I’d really hope so after four years of doing this.”

The casual reminder of how long it had been hit Tony fairly hard, but he just told Peter that it looked good, and then showed him the blueprints of some things he’d come up with since being resurrected.

The night ended with Peter falling asleep on the small, comfortable sofa in the corner of the lab, Tony bouncing back and forth between working on his hand and the Spidey suit. At 3am, he decided it was probably a good idea to move Peter to his room, so he knelt down beside him, gently shaking his shoulder, and —

And Peter was almost instantly awake, grabbing Tony’s arm by his wrist and holding it there, in an absolutely iron grip. His eyes were also wide, looking like he’d just seen a ghost, and, well, that was actually pretty accurate.

“Hey, hey,” Tony said, keeping his voice quiet, hopefully soothing. “It’s just me, Pete, no one else. We’re down in the lab, yeah? I just figured you’d want to sleep in an actual bed at some point.”

His words, apparently, weren’t helping, because Peter just looked confused, his eyes scanning the room before focusing back on Tony. The grip on his arm also hadn’t loosened one bit, not that he was trying to get away.

“Right,” Peter said eventually, though he sounded weird. Different. Off. “Yeah. I — sure, thanks. Can you — remind me who Obadiah was?”

Maybe if they’d been further away from each other, Tony would have been able to hide his expression a little better, but, as it was, he was sure Peter could see the way he grimaced, as almost a knee jerk reaction. He hadn’t thought about Obadiah in awhile, which would’ve been progress, probably, but he had a thousand new traumatic experiences that he was thinking about instead.

“He was my old business partner,” Tony said, and if anyone else had asked him about this, he wouldn’t have answered. But it was Peter, and it was unexpected, and there was a _reason_ , right? There had to be a reason. “He — tried to kill me, because he didn’t like the way I was running SI. He was the reason for Afghanistan. I — _why_? Why are you asking?”

Peter looked a lot less terrified after Tony had answered, and he let go of his arm, glancing over at it and wincing. “Sorry, about — I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Two more minutes and we would’ve had to build me a second bionic hand, but it’s fine, kid. I’m okay. Are you going to answer my question?”

Peter was looking nervous again, but not in the frightened way. No, it was the _I don’t want to answer this question_ kind of way, but Tony had a feeling that he knew he wouldn’t be able to get out of it. After another moment or two of them just staring at each other, Peter finally said, “I just had a dream, and — and you mentioned Obadiah. I didn’t remember who he was.”

Tony wasn’t exactly sure if he believed him, but his brain got stuck on the fact that Peter was dreaming about him, and he also wanted the kid to stop looking so damn uncomfortable. So he just nodded a little and stood up, holding his hand out to Peter so he would take it, and Tony could help him up. Once they were both standing, Tony said, “He was friends with my dad, and was the CEO after he died, until I took over. I never had any idea he was unhappy with the way I was doing things.”

“Until he tried to kill you,” Peter said, and Tony couldn’t help but chuckle a little because, _yeah_ , that was pretty accurate.

“Until he tried to kill me,” Tony agreed. “You want to head up to bed?”

Peter was, thank god, looking far less nervous, and he nodded, smiling just a little.

They bid each other goodnight, Tony watching him get into the elevator, and he only continued working once FRIDAY told him that Peter was in his room, comfortably in his bed.

It didn’t take long for his mind to wander back to what had just happened, though he was soon writing it off as just — what Peter had said. He’d had a dream (about Tony) and Obadiah had been mentioned, and he didn’t remember who he was. So he’d asked. The kid was a shit liar, and they both knew it, so it seemed unlikely that he’d try. And, well, if Tony had this preconceived notion that Peter didn’t lie to him, so what? It was probably true.

Around 8am or so, Tony decided to head up to the kitchen and make some French toast, because it was one of Peter’s favorites, and the kid had also expressed his enjoyment at seeing Tony be _domestic_.

When Peter emerged from his room at 8:23 and asked Tony where his dad had met Obadiah, he answered truthfully, not really thinking much of it. They enjoyed their French toast and, also, French pressed coffee (to make it a themed breakfast), and then ventured back down into the lab until Peter had to gather his things and leave, as to not miss his bus back to Boston.

***

After that, they saw each other pretty regularly. Tony had the feeling that Peter was definitely too busy with classwork to come down to New York as often as he did, but when asked about it, he just claimed he did everything on the bus rides there and back. Tony should have been the adult in the situation and insisted that Peter stayed on campus more often, but he was enjoying his presence too much to send him away.

If FRIDAY were a sentient being, she probably would’ve commented on the fact that Tony was the happiest on the days that Peter was there, and that he spent his weekdays simply looking forward to the weekend. But she wasn’t, and so she didn’t. And Tony wasn’t going to read too much into it.

Something he _was_ going to read into, however, was the fact that Peter’s seemingly random questions didn’t stop. He, at least, _did_ stop looking so panicked every time he came over, and actually greeted Tony instead of simply spitting a question at him. But, without fail, within the first five minutes of him arriving, or waking up, or sometimes even when Tony came back down into the lab after getting them food, he was asking him _something_. And he always looked anxious until Tony responded, though he really wasn’t sure what the kid was looking for. But he must have answered well enough, because every time Peter would nod, his body relaxing, and they’d move on with their day with zero issues.

It wasn’t that Tony had any problems answering his questions. If he wanted to know more about Yinsen, Tony would tell him. Or more about his dad, or his relationship with Pepper, or that one time in college that he and Rhodey had made out. ( _“I — yeah, yeah, we made out after a party and we were both drunk. But he’s straight and I’m not, but why — who told you about that?”_ ) And it wasn’t that Tony thought Peter didn’t want to _know_ the information, but. There was some ulterior motive that he just couldn’t figure out.

And he wanted to ask, he really did, but after the question was answered, everything was _fine_. They finished his bionic hand after two or three weekends, and then the following two were focused on helping Tony actually _use_ it. The tech coupled with his continued physical therapy was actually going pretty well, well enough that three weeks after the bionic hand had been completed, Tony decided to forgo his sling altogether and have both hands out.

And if FRIDAY were a sentient being, she would have noticed and commented on the fact that Tony was especially happy when Peter noticed that fact almost immediately after coming over that Saturday morning. But she wasn’t, so she didn’t, and Tony wasn’t going to think about it too hard.

“Have you shown it to Rhodey?” Peter asked, hoisting his bookbag onto the lab table with a considerable _thump_. Tony absently wondered if he would even be able to lift it with his pitiful human strength.

“Not yet,” Tony said, and he was ignoring the way his right hand was shaking as he used it to bring his BLT to his mouth. At least he was using it. “He’s a busy guy, you know.”

“No, yeah, I know.” Peter sat down on a chair and pulled out two very hefty textbooks, as well as a notebook, and dutifully got to work, leaving Tony to finish his sandwich in the comfortable silence. But, as expected, something like three minutes later, he was casually asking, “Do you remember what I said to you, the first time we saw each other after Titan?”

The first time they — so, the battle. Before Tony had died. Right. “Yeah, I do. You were rambling a lot.” Jesus, what had the kid said again? He could barely remember, because he hadn’t exactly been focusing on the words coming out of his mouth; he’d been focusing on the fact that Peter was _alive_ , he was okay, their plan had _worked_. He remembered that in that moment, it didn’t matter if he made it out alive or not — as long as _Peter_ was okay, then it would all be worth it. “You said something about Strange, and you asked me how many years it had been, and then I hugged you.”

Normally, Peter would relax after he answered, would offer him a nod or a comment about what he’d just said, but this time was different. His eyes shot up from the book he’d been idly looking at, wide and afraid, and Tony had absolutely no idea what had happened. It was like a month and a half ago, when he was hesitantly entering the lab, like he was a second away from running.

“Peter?” Tony asked, setting his sandwich down, though it was more like dropping it, because he hadn’t been focusing on moving his hand. “You okay?”

Peter blinked, his eyes dropping back down to his textbook, and he was nodding a few times, just short jerks of his head. “Yeah,” he said, and his voice was off again. Wrong. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”

That was a lie, obviously, but Tony supposed he wouldn’t push it. He just said, “Okay,” and picked his sandwich back up, slowly and carefully reassembling it, all with his right hand. He kind of expected Peter to comment on it, though that was weird, wasn’t it? He was just messing with a sandwich — it wasn’t anything spectacular.

Their silence continued on after that, which wasn’t unusual, except this didn’t exactly feel _comfortable_. This was — tense. Peter normally blew through his homework, completing each assignment with what seemed like ease. But Tony was pretty sure he was still on the first textbook that he’d pulled out, which was — worrying, to say the least, and he was wracking his brain for what could have happened. He ran through the question again ( _Do you remember what I said to you, the first time we saw each other after Titan?_ ) and his answer ( _Yeah, I do. You were rambling a lot. You said something about Strange, and you asked me how many years it had been, and then I hugged you._ ) and that was when it clicked in his head.

He’d answered _wrong_. Peter hadn’t asked him how many years it had been; he’d said that Strange had told him it had been five years and that they needed to go. And he’d said something about being all _dusty_. (A very _Peter_ thing to say, after coming back from the dead.)

But that wasn’t what was wrong, was it? Was him misremembering causing Peter _this_ much stress? And more importantly, if it was — _why_ was it?

“You know,” Tony said, and Peter’s eyes were shooting up again, immediately locking with his. He tried not to be completely taken aback with how nervous he _still_ looked, and pushed on. “You didn’t ask me how many years it had been. You said that Strange told you. Right?”

And there it was. The relaxation that usually came after Tony answered. Peter nodded, running a hand through his hair, and said, “Yeah, yeah. Strange told me it had been five years almost immediately after I came back. Kinda overwhelming.”

“Very overwhelming,” Tony said, though his brain was now working to try and figure out what exactly had just happened. “At least he didn’t do that to me. I think Rhodey was the one to tell me how long it had been.”

“I would’ve rather heard it from Rhodey,” Peter said, and he seemed _fine_ now, his gaze back on his book, his pencil in his hand. After another few moments, he was even writing things down, which he hadn’t been doing before.

So — Peter was looking for a _correct_ answer. 100% correct, apparently, because Tony’s mistake hadn’t been that major. He thought back to other questions he’d asked him ( _Who was Yinsen? Why did you and Pepper break up? Did your dad really know Steve?_ ) and wondered if Peter already knew the answers and was just — testing him? He really didn’t know, and he’d have to ponder it later, because at the current moment, he was —

Still just staring at Peter. Right. Maybe he shouldn’t do that. He stood up, picking up his empty plate (with his right hand), and walked it over to the trashcan, throwing it away.

The rest of the day passed without incident, though Tony did take extra care to make sure he didn’t leave Peter alone for any extended periods of time. He still wasn’t quite sure what happened earlier, but he _did_ know that it definitely seemed to freak Peter out, and he wanted to avoid doing that again.

Soon enough, it was the evening, and Peter was leaving instead of spending the night, because he wanted to spend the next day with May before he had to go back to Boston. They said their goodbyes (which included a hug this time) and then the kid was gone, leaving Tony with plenty of questions, but no real answers.

An hour later, after talking it through with FRIDAY (she was a good listener, alright?), he was no closer to figuring anything out, and actually had _more_ questions than he’d started with.

The one thing he _did_ know, though, was that answering “correctly” made Peter relax. So he’d just have to keep doing that. Seemed easy enough, right? He sure hoped so.

With that resolution in place, Tony focused his attention on something else — a new version of the War Machine suit, because why not — and let himself be enveloped by the work, blissfully unaware of the passage of time.

***

At 3:27 that morning, FRIDAY said, _Boss, EDITH is online._

“What?” Tony set down the tool he’d been using and ran a hand through his hair, his right hand very carefully picking up his coffee so he could take a sip. There was a _Let Me Know When Someone’s Using It_ function in all of his gadgets, but he normally turned it off. With EDITH — well, he honestly just hadn’t thought of it. It was for Peter in the event of his death; he hadn’t thought he’d be around to receive any notifications like this.

_Peter Parker has turned EDITH on for the first time in 3 years, 7 months, 1 week, 5 days, 17 hours and 46 minutes._

“Thanks for the breakdown, Fri,” Tony said, though he was admittedly _very_ confused by the information. He’d given Peter EDITH in order to help him out, and while he hadn’t expected him to use it 24/7, he would’ve expected something sooner than _3 years ago_. “Can you show me all the usage in the past four and a half years?”

_Sure thing_ , FRIDAY said, and instantaneously a graph was showing up in front of him, showing how often Peter had used EDITH, and for how long. For the first six months or so, there was nothing, which probably meant that Peter just hadn’t received it yet. After that, there was a period of about a week or so, where EDITH had been used _constantly_. After that, it tapered off, until there was nothing — until tonight, anyway.

Huh. Okay. Interesting. “Fri, can you show me the footage from the first time EDITH was used?”

_Of course_. In another second, the graph was replaced with a video of —

A bus full of children?

But, after another second, Tony could hear Peter’s quiet, tentative, “Hello?”

And then EDITH’s response of, _Hello, Peter._

Tony waved his hand, pausing the video, so he could ask, “Hey, Fri, where was this footage recorded?”

_In Austria, boss. The Central Eastern Alps._

That was — unexpected. When had Peter ever been to Austria? When had Peter even left the country, besides going to Germany with him?

Tony waved his hand again, unpausing the video, and he listened as EDITH explained her functions, as well as the reasoning behind her name. And if Peter sounded a little choked up after that, well — maybe he was just imagining it.

He only watched a few more moments, seeing how Peter had looked around at everyone in the bus, EDITH demonstrating what she could do by pulling up everyone’s phone usage. He recognized Ned and MJ, but no one else, really, though it was still enough to deduce that it was a class trip. To — Austria, apparently.

“What kinds of things did Peter use EDITH for?” Tony asked, pulling the graph back up and focusing on the week of nearly 24/7 usage. He had no idea what he would’ve done for 24 whole hours, but hey, it was new tech. Maybe it was like getting a new phone?

_Peter watched EDITH’s tutorials, ordered opera tickets for him and his classmates, and then transferred controls over to Quentin Beck._

Wait — what?

“Quentin Beck?” Tony asked, and he was standing up, though he wasn’t sure why. So he could pace around the room? Maybe. Sure. “Who is — that name sounds familiar. Who is that?”

_Quentin Beck used to work for Stark Industries,_ FRIDAY said, and that rang a few more bells, but not all of them. _He specialized in holographic and illusion technologies, and his work was integral in the creation of BARF. However, after a demonstration at MIT, you fired him because of his mental instability._

Okay, so — holy _shit_.

Standing was too much; he needed to be sitting again. He made his way over to the couch in the corner of the lab and dropped down onto it, running both his hands over his face and then through his hair.

Courtesy of the refresher from FRIDAY, Tony certainly remembered who Quentin Beck was. A brilliant guy, sure, but his motives were way off, making him one crazy motherfucker.

And Peter had given him EDITH. Right, sure. Of course.

“Show me the footage of Peter transferring the controls,” Tony said, and in another second, the video was in front of him, and he watched as Peter looked around, from — inside a bar, it looked like.

“EDITH?” he asked, and when he was met with the usual response of, _Hello, Peter_ , he continued with, “Hi, yeah, um. I’d like to transfer your control over to Quentin Beck.”

Off screen, someone asked, “Peter, what are you doing?” and yes, yeah, that was Beck. Sure sounded like him, anyway. Sure enough, when Peter looked over, there was Beck, sitting on a barstool, wearing — okay, Tony actually wasn’t sure what the _hell_ he was wearing. But it was him.

“Doing the right thing,” was Peter’s response, and EDITH said, _I need a confirmation before transferring control._

“Stark gave _you_ the glasses, Pete,” Beck said, and something hot and angry and unidentifiable burned in Tony’s blood at hearing that asshole call him _Pete,_ but there wasn’t really time to try and figure that one out, so he didn’t even try.

“Tony gave me a choice,” Peter said, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard the kid call him _Tony_. And he wasn’t sure what that meant, either. “And I’m choosing you. You heard Fury — _I’m_ definitely not the right choice, I’m just a kid. And you, you’re — a soldier, a warrior, a _leader_. Tony would’ve wanted these glasses to belong to someone like that, someone like _you_. So — here, I’m confirming it. Confirmed.”

In another second, the perspective of the video shifted, and Tony could now see Peter, sitting on his own barstool, looking — small. There was something small about him, and it wasn’t just because he was younger.

“Welcome to the Avengers,” Peter said, and god, all the breath in Tony’s lungs left at once, because — because of a few things, actually.

First of all, damn him for making his note to Peter anything less than straightforward. If there hadn’t been anything left up to interpretation, whatever happened with Beck probably wouldn’t have. Or maybe he was just blaming himself, he didn’t know.

But, second of all, _damn_ Beck to _hell_ for whatever trick he was pulling on Peter. Sure, there was a _possibility_ that Beck was a genuinely changed man, and Peter had been right to trust him, but — come _on_ , how likely was that?

Third, what the _fuck_ had Fury said to Peter to make him doubt himself so much? Actually, why was Fury even _involved_? What the hell was going on?

Unaware of Tony’s internal crisis, the video was still playing, and Tony watched as Beck and Peter shook hands, and then Peter was leaving the bar, waving to Beck like an absolute dork. After only a few moments, the bar was changing, items disappearing, the environment completely changing, and —

And then Beck was saying, “See, that wasn’t so hard.”

Cheering erupted from around him, everyone in the bar coming closer to Beck, and then he added: “Somebody get this _stupid_ costume off me!”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tony said, waving the video away, and sitting with his head in his hands for more than a few minutes. And then, eventually, he said, “FRIDAY, give me some context. How did — how did this happen? _What_ happened?”

A lot, apparently. A lot happened.

FRIDAY provided him with plenty of context. From Mexico to Venice and then to Prague, to Nick Fury’s involvement and the absolute depth of Beck’s deception. The tech was good, realistic, obviously created by a genius, but it was equally as obvious that Beck was a madman.

But not to the media, apparently. _Mysterio_ was painted as a hero, a savior, the “superhero that the world needed.” And in the process, Peter was a _villain,_ somehow. (As if the kid had an evil bone in his body.)

It was — fucking ridiculous. All of it.

“Fury could have asked _anyone else_ ,” Tony said, and he was pacing again, feeling like he had too much energy and nowhere to go with it. “But _no_ , he asked the _16 year old kid_. Because _that_ makes sense.”

If FRIDAY were a sentient being, she would’ve pointed out that Tony had recruited a _14_ year old kid to go to Germany and fight Captain America. But she wasn’t, so she didn’t, and Tony knew he was a hypocrite, okay?

_Would you like me to call Nick Fury?_ FRIDAY asked, and Tony’s _no_ was immediate and forceful and a little harsh, but it’s not like FRIDAY would notice things like that. (Her _okay, boss_ did sound a little sassy, though.)

“I want you to tell me what Beck did with EDITH,” he said, still pacing, because he genuinely couldn’t stop.

_He used EDITH’s drones to create bigger, more detailed illusions,_ FRIDAY said. _A considerable amount of those illusions were created specifically for Peter Parker._

That made Tony pause. Why had that been necessary? Peter had already given him EDITH, why make illusions for him?

“Show me them,” Tony said, and the video appeared in front of him, and started playing.

It was — a lot of nightmare fuel. Cheap tricks meant to scare Peter, to disorient him, to throw him off. A dark, never-ending hallway, an army of Beck in his _stupid costume_ , Ned and MJ falling off of the Eiffel Tower. Tony waved his hand at the screen, pausing it so he could ask, “Is there footage of Peter reacting to these illusions?”

There was.

Peter was in his black suit, that had come from SHIELD (which was a truly terrible design, by the way. Why had Fury made him wear that?), so Tony was unable to see his face, but his body language was enough. Beck was really throwing him around, not holding anything back, which, _god_ , it wasn’t necessary. He was just beating the shit out of a 16 year old _kid_. Beating him, disorienting him, scaring him. Thank _god_ Beck was already dead, or Tony would’ve had to go out and kill the man himself.

He had been about to stop the video, unable to watch anymore, when out of nowhere, he heard Peter softly say, “Tony?” And when he focused back on the screen, he saw himself — or, well, not _really_ himself, it was his suit. It was flying around the illusion, and taking shots at Beck, making it look like he was on Peter’s side, helping him out. He got a few good hits in, taking Beck down, and then he was flying over to Peter, landing, and —

“Zoom in, Fri,” Tony said. “Please.”

The video zoomed in just as Tony stepped out of his suit, right in front of Peter. And it looked like him, truly. The right clothes, the right glasses. Even his hair looked _too_ accurate.

“Are you okay, Pete?” the illusion Tony asked, taking a step towards him. Peter, in response, took a step back, shaking his head, but the illusion was persistent. He stepped forward again, saying, in a voice that sounded _just_ like Tony’s, “It’s gonna be okay now, kid. I promise. Let’s get out of here and get you cleaned up, yeah?”

“You’re _not real_ ,” Peter said, his voice loud and defiant, but very obviously broken at the same time. He was crying, if the slight shaking of his body and the wavering in his voice was anything to go by, and it was breaking Tony’s heart to hear it.

“Hey, hey, Pete. Hey.” The illusion was getting closer to him, and while Peter was still moving away, his steps backwards were getting smaller and smaller. “I’ve got you, okay? You’re okay now.”

“ _No_ ,” Peter absolutely snarled, but all that anger turned into loud, ugly sobbing in just another second. “You’re — you’re _gone_ , you left. You’re _dead_. Leave me _alone_!”

“I’m so sorry, Peter,” the illusion said, voice soft, and he was _still_ getting closer to Peter, and Peter wasn’t moving away anymore. He was just standing there, crying, his arms wrapped around himself, shaking his head. “I’m sorry,” the illusion continued, “that I never got to tell you how I feel.”

The entire illusion had been god awful, absolutely heart wrenching and saddening, but that — that sentence made Tony freeze, made him stop breathing, his heart pounding in his chest.

“What?” Peter asked, small and broken and trembling.

“I love you, Peter. I’ve always loved you.”

Peter was still after that, and so was Tony, because Christ, holy shit, he couldn’t believe that —

A train was _slamming_ into Peter’s small, shaking body, taking him away, out of frame. And Tony —

“ _Fuck!_ ” he yelled, stumbling away from the screen, waving it away, before he was collapsing back onto the sofa, his heart hammering in his chest and his breathing fast, way too fast. He leaned forward, holding his head in his hands, the image of Peter being hit by a _goddamn train_ playing behind his eyes on repeat, never-ending.

After only a moment or two, FRIDAY was starting her _Panic Attack Protocol_ , which involved telling him where he was, the date and time, and, a recent addition — _You’re alive_.

But that only helped somewhat. Eventually, Tony shook his head, saying, “Is — tell me — is Peter okay?” Logically, he knew that _yes_ , he was okay, he was fine. He’d been in Tony’s lab just a few hours before, talking and breathing and smiling and very, very alive. But illogically, Tony felt like Peter had gotten _hit with a fucking train_ just moments ago, that he needed to put the suit on and _go_ to him, help him, save him.

And while the feeling didn’t exactly go away, it did, at least, fade a little after FRIDAY said, _Peter is in his room in May Parker’s apartment, in his bed, asleep._

If FRIDAY were a sentient being, she might’ve added an extra reassurance, an additional, soft, _He’s okay_. But she wasn’t, so she didn’t, and that was fine. Tony didn’t need it.

Soon enough, his breathing was controlled, his heart beating at an acceptable rate, and hey, it seemed like his hands had stopped shaking, too. 

FRIDAY’s little status update on Peter (courtesy of EDITH, even if she wasn’t turned all the way on) had reminded him of something, and there was no real reason that he needed to know, but —

“Hey, Fri,” he said, his voice quiet and tired, but FRIDAY would still be able to hear him. “What did Peter use EDITH for tonight?”

_Peter used EDITH to check if any of Quentin Beck’s illusions were still functional,_ FRIDAY said, as casual as ever, as if she wasn’t finishing this horrible puzzle with that last, awful piece.

Because — 

God, _god_ , it made sense now. It all made sense. Peter’s hesitation, his nervousness, his _questions_. All the questions. They were a test, like he’d thought, but obviously he hadn’t known _why_. But now — 

Peter thought that Tony might be one of Beck’s illusions.

And if he answered his questions correctly, that meant he was real. If he answered incorrectly (like he had earlier that day), it meant that there was a chance Tony was fake. A chance that Tony was an illusion.

That was —

A lot. It was a lot.

It was a lot to work through, and he had to, he _had_ to. It wasn’t what he _wanted_ to do — he _wanted_ to get into a suit and fly over to May’s apartment, to tell Peter that he wasn’t an illusion and that he was safe and that Beck would never be able to hurt him again. That he would remind him of that fact whenever he wanted, whenever he needed. And he would’ve done that all along, too, if Peter had asked, if Peter had told him about all of this, and —

Yeah, that’s what Tony _wanted_ to do, but he definitely couldn’t.

For starters, bursting into the kid’s room and _insisting_ that he wasn’t an illusion would probably make him seem like he _was_ one, so he definitely wanted to avoid that. Additionally, there had to be a reason that Peter hadn’t told him about all of this. About his trip to Europe, about Beck, Fury, the illusions. Being _hit with a train_. And while he wished he would have, and it kind of hurt that he hadn’t, Tony wasn’t upset. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t done similar things, or kept similar secrets. He _got it_ — he understood. 

The other reason that Tony had to work through this stuff was — well.

Peter getting hit by a train was still playing on repeat in his head, but so were the moments right before it. Specifically — _I love you, Peter. I’ve always loved you_.

If Tony were a better man, he would’ve been able to say, definitively, _What? No, no, I don’t love him. I don’t have feelings for him. I don’t know where Beck got that from._

But Tony was not a good man, it seemed. Because he could not say, with 100% certainty, _no, I don’t love Peter Parker_. But he couldn’t say that he _did_ love him, either.

So. Yeah. A lot to work through.

He took the maximum dosage of his almost unused sleeping pills that night, and passed the fuck out.

***

When he woke up, things weren’t much better — but at least he had a destination in mind.

***

Now, he’d never really been medically cleared to drive a car again, what with his whole entire right arm having a very hard time functioning. He also — well, he hadn’t actually considered if dying invalidated his driver’s license. It probably, almost definitely did, but maybe laws had changed after the Snap and the Blip. (Tony still thought that was a very strange name for the event, but Peter had stressed that it was just what people called it.)

So, he couldn’t safely or legally operate a vehicle, but that definitely wasn’t stopping him.

And it ended up being totally and completely _fine,_ anyway. His driving was only a little worse than normal, but it didn’t really take him all that long to adjust to the fact that his right arm was out of commission. And it didn’t take him that long to get where he wanted to go, either, because it wasn’t very far away.

Parking was a little inconvenient, but that was just New York City, so he couldn’t be mad at it. (Well, he could, and he _was_ a little irritated, but mostly at his rusty parallel parking skills.)

But none of that really mattered, because it wasn’t long before he was at his destination — and knocking on a door.

After only a few moments, Happy was opening said door, looking _incredibly_ confused at Tony’s presence, which — fair. That was fair.

“Tony?” he asked.

“Harold,” Tony said, walking past him and into the apartment, taking a look around as he did. He’d never been there before, and it was nice. Simple. Exactly what he’d expect from Happy Hogan’s living space, and that wasn’t an insult.

He heard the door shut behind him, and then Happy was moving in front of him, blocking him from exploring anymore of the apartment.

“Did someone drive you here?” he asked, and god, with questions like that, Tony might as well have visited Rhodey.

“No, Hap, I drove here myself. Like a big boy.” Rather than look at the disappointed expression on his face, Tony simply moved past him and continued on into the apartment, finding his way into the kitchen, which was _kind of_ small. Hopefully Happy wasn’t paying too much for this place.

“Tony. You know that was dangerous, right? And — _illegal_ , probably. Did you get your license renewed?”

“You know, all these questions really makes it seem like you’re not happy to see me,” Tony said, and he was opening Happy’s fridge and peering in, for no specific reason other than that he _could_. It kind of played into another aspect of being resurrected — people were _cautious_ around you. Not that Happy would have started throwing punches or anything, if Tony hadn’t died, but he probably would’ve been more in his face, more intensely inquisitive. And not simply standing at the doorway to his kitchen, like he currently was.

“You know I’m always happy to see you,” he said, though he definitely didn’t sound it. “But you don’t usually just _pop in_ like this. So what’s up?”

“Wanted to see your new place,” Tony said, walking past him again, and back out into the living room. He also — he wasn’t sure if this place was _new_ or not. It was new to him, sure, but _everything_ was. “And it’s pretty nice, though the kitchen could be bigger. But you’re not much of a cook, are you?”

“I moved in here two and a half years ago.” Yeah, figured. “Are you going to tell me what you’re _actually_ doing here, or just wander around?”

Tony had been planning to bullshit for a _little_ longer, just to be an asshole, just to make Happy irritated, but — but there was a photo, hanging on the wall. Happy and Peter, at Peter’s graduation. He was wearing the cap and gown, and a few medals, too, and it looked exactly like Tony had expected it to.

Except when Tony had imagined it, _he’d_ been in Happy’s place, posing next to the kid with a stupid, ridiculously proud smile on his face.

“Oh, I just have a question, that’s all,” Tony heard himself saying, though he wasn’t really focusing on that; he was focusing on the part of his brain that was playing that _damn_ video on repeat. That was watching Peter get hit by that train, over and over and over again. “When, exactly, were you going to tell me about Beck?”

Tony could practically _feel_ the mood shift. It was like the air in the apartment was different, somehow. Colder. Thinner.

“What?” Happy asked, and his voice was soft in a way that Tony wasn’t sure he’d ever heard before.

“You know. Beck. Quentin Beck.” He tore his eyes away from the picture and looked over at Happy, and his expression was one that Tony wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before, either. “The guy who tricked _everyone_. The guy who _hurt_ Peter. The guy who had him _hit_ by a _train_. That guy. You know him, right? You know who I’m — ”

“Yes, Tony, _yes_ , I know who you’re talking about,” Happy said, audibly and visibly stressed. “How did you — ?”

“Does it matter?” Tony stepped closer to him, though there was still a good amount of distance between them. “ _Why_ didn’t you tell me?”

“It wasn’t up to me,” Happy said, sounding a little helpless. “It’s not my story to tell; it’s Peter’s. And it — it happened _four years ago_ , Tony. Maybe if it had happened _last year_ or something, but Peter hasn’t even mentioned it in — god, I don’t even know how long.”

It being Peter’s story to tell was a decent point, but — still. _Still_. “It’s something I should’ve known about sooner than _now_ ,” Tony said, running a hand through his hair. “He — every time Peter sees me, he asks me something, just to make sure it’s _actually_ me. Did you know that? Does he do that with you?”

Happy didn’t even have to answer for Tony to know what his response was going to be. Just by the way his face fell after hearing about the questions, he knew that _no_ , Happy didn’t know, and _no_ , he didn’t do that with him.

Unsurprisingly, Happy was shaking his head before saying, “I didn’t know. And he only did that with me once, right after everything with Beck had just happened.”

Happy not knowing that Peter was still struggling made the fact that he hadn’t told him about it easier to accept, though it just meant that Peter was suffering in silence. Which was very like him, but still not great. At all.

“What’d he ask you?” Tony asked, even though it really didn’t matter. It was just — _wrong_ , the fact that he didn’t _know_ anything. Finding out about details that he probably didn’t need was just him trying to regain some semblance of control, because he was _supposed_ to know all of it already. He was supposed to know about Peter’s life, he was supposed to — he was supposed to have _been_ there. If he had been there, Beck never would’ve been able to fool anyone, to trick Peter, to use Tony against him. To use the fact that Tony loved him to _hurt_ him. To make everyone believe that —

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

Tony loved him.

Oh, _god_ , he did, didn’t he? He loved him.

Suddenly, the things that he’d been unsure about the night before were absolutely _crystal clear_.

Of _course_ he loved him. It seemed like the most obvious thing in the world, now that things were in perspective. When Tony had assumed Peter would be deliriously happy to see him? He’d loved him. When he’d answered every single question the kid had asked him, no hesitation? He’d loved him then, too. When he’d worked in the lab with him, when he’d eaten Thai food with him, when he’d watched him do his homework instead of working on a project of his own, when he’d watched that video of him. He’d loved him, he’d adored him, he’d thought the world of him, he’d cherished him.

He, Tony Stark, was very deeply in love with Peter Parker.

And he hadn’t even noticed it happen.

“— and so I said that on the bill for the hotel, I could see that he’d bought some adult movies, and the fact that I knew that proved it to him, that I was actually me.”

Tony blinked a few times, having tuned back into Happy at, perhaps, the worst possible time, but he just nodded, to make it seem like he understood. Honestly, he didn’t even know what question he’d asked him. His mind was now too preoccupied with the giant, monumental thing he’d _just_ figured out, and he didn’t know what to do with it.

Well, alright, he _did_ know what he _wanted_ to do. He wanted to hop right back into his car and head straight over to May’s, to burst into the apartment and tell Peter that everything was okay, that he loved him, he loved him _so much —_ and that he was real. It was real.

But Peter wouldn’t believe him, if he did all that.

So, Tony just had to figure out _how_ to get him to believe him. Which would be easy enough, right?

(Definitely wouldn’t be easy. He was up for the challenge, though.)

He stayed over at Happy’s a little bit longer, assuring him that he’d figure out a way to get through to Peter, to prove to him that Beck’s illusions were truly done for, and that Tony was back — and not going anywhere, anytime soon.

He also spent some time assuring Happy that he really was okay to drive, and that led to him showing off his bionic hand, which he did seem impressed with. 

Soon enough, Tony was on his way back to the upstate facility, his brain already trying to stitch together a plan, and once he got back to the lab, he was bouncing ideas off of FRIDAY yet again, because she _really_ was a good listener, _okay_?

***

By Monday evening, he was creating a program that scanned the area, in a 50 mile radius, for anything resembling Beck’s tech. Predictably, it came up with nothing, but even so — Tony was relieved.

***

By Tuesday afternoon, he was realizing that any program _he_ made wouldn’t exactly be comforting, because _he_ was the one who was possibly an illusion, in Peter’s mind. And the illusion’s program wasn’t trustworthy.

He didn’t totally scrap it, though. FRIDAY could still run the scan, whenever she was asked to, but it was, however, scrapped from Tony’s _official plan_.

***

By the middle of the night, Thursday morning, the fact that he was actually going to have to _declare his feelings_ to Peter was dawning on him, and by Friday afternoon, he was a somehow _little_ less nervous about actually doing that.

***

By Friday night, he was semi-confident that his plan was going to work, and that was the best he was going to do.

***

And by the time FRIDAY was saying, _Boss, Peter is on his way down to the lab_ , on Saturday morning, he was as ready as he’d ever be.

Peter walked in, his bookbag hooked over one shoulder, a small smile on his face, and a quiet greeting of, _Hey, Mr. Stark_ , falling from his lips — but he could still see that he was nervous.

Tony was also nervous. Hopefully that wasn’t too obvious.

“Hi, Pete,” he said, watching Peter approach the lab table he was sitting at, and when he was about four feet away, he continued with, “The t-shirt I gave you after the ferry incident said, _I survived my trip to NYC._ ”

Peter stopped dead in his tracks, and he was frowning a little, but there was also something else there, something that almost seemed like _hope_? Tony wasn’t sure.

“What?” he asked, and his bookbag was sliding off his arm a little, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“And you always tell me that I’m too mean to Dum-E,” Tony said, pushing forward, continuing on, and at the mention of his name, Dum-E whirred a little from the corner of the room, where he’d been idly sitting, and Tony looked over, saying, “ _Hey_ , not now, okay? Later.”

“You _are_ too mean to Dum-E,” Peter said, and Tony heard the telltale _thump_ of the kid’s bag, and when he looked back at him, it was on the ground next to him. “What are you — ?”

Tony held up his hand, stopping him from finishing his question, because if he _told_ him what he was doing, it would be less authentic. Less convincing. “That one time,” he continued, after a moment or two, “when we got burgers, and you took a bite out of the burger _and_ , accidentally, the wrapper, and you thought I didn’t notice — well, yeah, I did.”

Peter was looking less confused now, and more hopeful, though his cheeks were also pink, courtesy of Tony’s last statement. “ _Great,_ ” he said. “Really, Mr. Stark, what — ?”

“You can call me Tony now, you know.” He stood up from the table he was sitting at, getting just a little closer to the kid. “And _I_ know that you used to call Ned your _guy in the chair_. Not sure if you still do or not, but I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“Only sometimes,” Peter allowed, after a moment. “Whatever this is, you don’t — _have_ to. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“You’ve gotten a little better at lying,” Tony said, moving closer again, but not too much, because Peter sort of looked two seconds away from taking a step back. “But not much. What do you think this is? What do you think I’m doing?”

Peter frowned a little, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he said, after a little. “But it has something to do with — the questions. I ask you. And that’s just — ”

“You wanting to know if it’s really me or not,” Tony said, voice soft, and Peter was frozen, though Tony still got the sense that he was a little bit of a flight risk.

“What?” he asked, and his expression was — complicated. Tony had never seen it before, he was pretty sure. Absently, he wondered if that was what Peter’s face had looked like, underneath his mask, when the illusion had been talking to him.

Maybe. Possibly. Probably. Tony just kept going. “On the way to Titan, you kept making movie references, acting like all the movies were _ancient_ or something.”

“They were,” Peter said, almost automatically, like it was a knee jerk reaction. “What do you mean, if it’s really you or not?”

Tony ignored him. “You were wearing some dorky t-shirt with a pizza on it, when I first met you. And you said that you couldn’t come to Germany because you had _homework_. And you brought it with you, didn’t you?”

“Well. _Yeah_ ,” Peter said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I — I didn’t want to be behind in my classes or anything.”

Tony nodded, respecting the kid’s work ethic, because he was sure it hadn’t changed. “I know that you went out partying that night, and that it ended up in the _newspaper_ , and that you begged Happy not to tell me.” He paused for a moment. “You also ordered some adult videos to your room? Not sure when you had the time for that, Pete, if you were out all night and — ”

Peter’s expression was changing, his eyes getting wider, and he whispered, “You — _know_. You know about — ”

“You were the last thing that I saw,” Tony said, interrupting him, and Peter was freezing again. He just — pushed forward. Kept going. “When I — died. After the fight. The last thing I remember is _you_. You were crying and saying my name and you told me that we won. And when I woke up, after Strange brought me back, _you_ were the first thing I thought about.”

That _maybe hopeful_ look was back on Peter’s face, and they were even closer to each other now, though Tony wasn’t sure when that happened. “You were the first thing I thought of,” he said, softly, “when I came back on Titan. It was like blinking. I closed my eyes, when I was — ” _Dying, disintegrating, fading away_ , Tony’s brain unnecessarily supplied. “Yeah. You know. I closed my eyes, and the next time I opened them, you were gone, and it was Strange, saying, _it’s been five years, we have to go_. I asked him if you were okay, and he said that you were, and so I went with him.”

“I almost didn’t hear a word you were saying, when I saw you during the fight,” Tony admitted, and Peter looked a bit confused at that, but that was a fair reaction. “I was just amazed that you were actually _alive_. I’d been waiting five years to see you. I’d — I figured out time travel so I could see you again, kid.”

“You figured out time travel so you could save the world,” Peter said, cautiously, and there might have been tears shining in his eyes, ones that just hadn’t fallen yet, but Tony couldn’t be 100% sure.

“You were my top priority,” he said, and Peter was shaking his head, so he continued. “ _Really_ , Peter. You were. Of course I wanted to save the world, I wanted to help everyone get back what they lost. But for me, that was — you. You were what I lost. I did it for you.”

Peter wasn’t looking at him anymore; he was looking down at his feet and still shaking his head, just a little bit. Tony wasn’t sure if he was going to say anything, and he didn’t want to interrupt him again, but —

“Hey,” he said. “Hey. Look at me, Pete.”

He did. His eyes were red, and his face was a complicated mix of nervous, hopeful, ashamed, _scared_. 

“Hi,” Tony said, and Peter smiled, just a little bit, just for a second, letting out a shaky _hi_ of his own. Tony waited just a moment or two before he was continuing, saying, his voice soft, “I love you, Peter.”

And almost instantly, Peter was shaking his head again, backing up, saying _no, no, no,_ and Tony was following him, finding and taking his hands in both of his, holding him there. He wasn’t trapping him; Peter could, obviously, move away if he wanted to, considering his strength. Even with Tony’s bionic hand (which he _was_ wearing), Peter was ten times stronger.

“I love you,” Tony said again, and Peter was still shaking his head, his eyes squeezed shut, though a few tears had managed to escape. “Hey. Ask FRIDAY. Ask her if this is real. She’ll tell you, Pete.”

“FRIDAY,” Peter said, voice shaking and quiet, but FRIDAY would still be able to hear him. “Is — is this — are there any, uh — illusions? Happening right now?”

_There are no illusions happening right now, Peter,_ FRIDAY said, and Tony could’ve _sworn_ that she sounded almost — _tender_. Caring. _There are no traces of Quentin Beck’s technology in a fifty mile radius_.

Tony watched as Peter sagged with relief at the words, and as a sob slipped out of his mouth at hearing Beck’s name. He was still holding onto his hands, and Peter still wasn’t trying to go anywhere, so he pulled him closer, just a little, and —

Peter was nearly collapsing against him, the tears coming full force now, and Tony let go of his hands only to wrap him up in a tight, secure hug. Peter returned the sentiment, though his hug was more like him just _clinging_ to him, and then they were just standing there, hanging onto each other.

“I love you,” Tony said again, voice soft, and as a response Peter was just crying harder, saying something into his chest that might’ve been _I love you, too,_ but Tony couldn’t exactly tell.

After another few moments, he was moving them over to the couch, sitting down and pulling Peter with him, so he was on his lap. He just curled up against him, face still buried in his chest and the tears still coming, so Tony just rubbed his back and told him, quietly, how much he loved him, and how _real_ this was.

Peter kept responding, and eventually his crying had died down enough for Tony to clearly hear what he kept saying, and it was, indeed, “I love you, too.”

“You can ask FRIDAY if there are any illusions happening at absolutely _any_ point,” Tony assured him, once Peter was just softly sniffling, and at the same time, his right hand was slowly running through Peter’s hair and gently scratching at his head. The movements were probably a little sloppy; his right hand was better than it had been, but it wasn’t _great_. Though Tony was pretty sure Peter didn’t mind. “I won’t mind, and you won’t offend me. I just want you to be comfortable, and feel safe.”

Peter nodded, which was basically just rubbing his face against his chest, and it was quiet for a few moments before he was asking, “FRIDAY, is this — real?”

_Yes, Peter_ , FRIDAY answered, and Tony could feel Peter relax against him in relief. _There are no illusions happening right now._

“Thank you, Fri,” Peter said, and then he was looking up at Tony, his entire face kind of red and blotchy, and his eyes were kind of puffy, too, but — but he didn’t look _nervous_. He didn’t look scared.

“Hi,” Tony said.

“Hi,” Peter said back to him, smiling a little. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

And then, because the moment just seemed _right_ — Tony was leaning down, pressing their lips together, and Peter kissed him back like a novice, like a dork, but it still might’ve been the best kiss he’d ever had.

***

They didn’t really do much of anything for the rest of the day. They spent awhile on the couch, just holding each other, being close to one another. Peter’s lips were extra pink after being kissed so much, and the area around his mouth was a little sensitive because of Tony’s beard, but Peter assured him it was well worth it.

They talked about a lot of things, too — they didn’t _just_ make out.

Peter equated dying after the Snap and being brought back in the Blip to falling asleep and waking up after anesthesia, though was it by no means _peaceful_.

“I tried to stop it,” he said, and he had this far away look in his eyes, like he was _there_ , reliving it. Tony kept running his hand through his hair, trying to help him, ground him, though he had no idea if it was making a real difference or not. “I — was terrified. I was afraid for me, for you, for — ”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Tony said, interrupting him. “ _You_ were dying, and you were afraid for _me_ , too?”

“Well, yeah.” Peter reached down and took Tony’s free hand — which happened to be his right hand, at that moment — and intertwined it with his, giving him the gentlest of squeezes. Tony, of course, squeezed back. “I’m always worried about you.”

They ended up kissing again after that, for a moderately long while, but who could blame them, right?

Later, Peter asked about what it felt like when _he_ came back from the dead — because it certainly hadn’t been anesthesia-esque.

“It was like waking up from a nap when you’re sick,” he said. “I was drowsy, groggy, _confused_. Definitely didn’t know what day it was.”

“But you thought about me?” Peter asked, sounding hesitant, like he was afraid of the answer.

He seemed to relax, though, when Tony nodded, saying, “Yeah, I did. Right away, I was thinking about you,” and _that_ conversation ended with them kissing, too.

Eventually, Peter asked about how Tony had found out about Beck, and he explained it — explained it _all_. From FRIDAY letting him know how infrequently EDITH had been used, to watching Peter transfer over the controls, to seeing him get hit with that _fucking_ train. He made sure to ask about the things he was still unsure about, though, like what exactly Fury had said to him to make him doubt himself as much as he had.

“Well, first of all,” Peter said, and he was sitting up a little, so Tony knew he was going to get at least a little animated while he talked. “He made me feel bad about the fact that I didn’t want to be there. Because I _really_ didn’t. I was supposed to be enjoying my European vacation with my school, and my friends, and he — forced me, basically. To help out.” Tony had a feeling that this conversation was going to make him want to find Fury and beat the shit out of him, and _hey_ , yeah, look at that, he’d been right. “May almost didn’t let me go,” Peter said, continuing, though his voice was a little softer. “I — it wasn’t great. After you died. Things weren’t great.”

This was the first that Tony had heard about this, and he almost wanted to go over to Happy’s apartment again and ask why he hadn’t _told him_ , but he’d probably get an answer that was similar to the one he’d gotten before. _It was a long time ago, Peter seemed to be doing better, it wasn’t his place._ All that stuff.

“But this trip was the first thing I’d been genuinely excited about in _months_ , so May couldn’t keep me home. And then, on, like, the very first day, _this_ happens. Beck happens. So, yeah, no, I didn’t want to be there.”

“Which is very understandable,” Tony said, reassuring him in case he needed it.

“Fury didn’t think so,” Peter said, sighing a little and looking down at their intertwined hands. “But, yeah, that, he said that, and he said that you’d chosen me, but maybe you’d made the wrong choice. That I was just a kid, and that I wasn’t ready for this yet.”

“I knew _exactly_ what I was doing,” Tony said, and in the back of his mind, he was making plans to punch Fury in the face. “You were the right choice. The perfect choice. Fury can kiss my ass.”

Peter smiled a little at that, and leaned down, pressing a soft kiss against his lips, and —

Well.

Yeah.

They got distracted again.

Once they regained some focus, Tony asked about the train, even though thinking about it nearly made him nauseous.

And Peter seemed to be able to sense that, too. He ran his hand through Tony’s hair before answering, pressing a quick, comforting kiss to his lips as well.

And his answer was —

“I don’t really remember it. I remember right _before_ the train hit me, but after that, it’s blank. The next thing I remember is waking up in the Netherlands, in some sort of weird jail.”

Tony frowned at that, asking, “How’d you get out?”

“I broke the lock on the door and left.” Peter’s cheeks were a bit pink after that, and Tony must’ve been giving him a _look_ , because he continued with, “What? It worked out fine. I just went outside, found someone with a phone, and called Happy to come get me.”

“And now there’s been a warrant out for your arrest for _four whole years_ in some random town in the Netherlands. You can never step foot into the country again, or I'll have to bail you out of jail.”

“You _shush_ ,” Peter said, smiling, leaning down to give him a playful kiss, and _that_ —

Well, that led to them getting distracted again.

But they discussed some other things, _too_ , of course. Additional things they could add to Tony’s bionic hand, how cute Carol and her girlfriend, Maria, were, how Tony was still _very_ shocked about what Steve had done.

But it was good. It was great. Tony never wanted to leave the kid’s side.

And saying _goodnight_ and _I love you_ to each other, before falling asleep while being completely snuggled up?

Absolutely priceless. And the best sleep he’d had in awhile.

***

Things went well after that.

Peter came to the city as often as he could, and then, once break came, well — he basically never left.

Everyone accepted their relationship reasonably well, though the general public didn’t know about them yet, because that would undoubtedly be a _whole_ thing. A thing that neither of them needed right then.

So, while things were definitely going _well_ — they weren’t perfect.

But, hey, nothing was, right? Tony hadn’t expected their relationship to be the exception to that.

Peter had struggled, a whole hell of a lot, since everything had happened with Beck. And after awhile, it became a _silent_ struggle, because Peter had started feeling like he’d been _taking too long_ to _get over it_ , and people _had_ to be getting annoyed with him, right? 

Wrong. Tony was very blunt, and very firm. _Wrong_. No one had gotten annoyed, and no one ever would. (Peter _maybe_ believed him. They were working on it.)

As expected, once Peter actually had someone to talk to about how he was feeling, things started getting _better_.

There were less nightmares, fewer anxiety attacks, less _bad days_ and more _good days_.

One thing stayed constant, though: how often Peter asked FRIDAY, _is this real_?

As previously stated, Tony was never upset with him for asking. Peter could ask once every minute if he really needed to, and Tony would just be concerned — never angry. Never disappointed.

That didn’t mean that he didn’t _wish_ things were different, though.

He wished that Peter didn’t have to deal with that kind of anxiety. That kind of doubt. He wished he could feel comfortable without having to check if his happiness was an illusion, but — he’d be patient with him. Of course he would.

The times that Peter asked FRIDAY weren’t always the same. There were a few constants; when he hadn’t seen Tony for a little while, and when he was first waking up. The other times, though — sometimes, it was when Tony was being sweet. When he was telling Peter how gorgeous he was, or touching him softly, gently, like he deserved to be touched. A couple times he’d asked for seemingly no reason, like when they were working on a new Spidey suit, or when Peter was doing his homework and Tony was working on a project of his own.

It provided him comfort, like it was supposed to. Tony wasn’t going to take that away.

However — he would always remember, and always be endlessly proud of the first time that Peter _didn’t_ ask.

They’d been working in the lab. Peter was updating his suit, and Tony was updating his hand. The room was silent, but that was okay. It was nice, it was comfortable.

But, out of nowhere, Peter had said, “Hey.”

Tony didn’t look up right away, because he had expected a _FRIDAY, is this real?_ to follow.

But it hadn’t.

And when Tony looked over at him, he was already staring straight at him, a small, _hopeful_ smile on his face.

“Hi,” Tony said.

“Hi,” Peter said back to him. “You’re real.”

Tony tried not to look _surprised_ or anything, but he wasn’t sure how well he did. He could feel that his eyebrows were raised. “Oh? Yeah, I am?”

“Yeah.” Peter stared at him for a second longer, then looked back down at his suit, the smile still on his face. “You missed a spot shaving. If you were an illusion, your beard would be perfect.”

Tony was still for a moment, his mind processing the words, before he was breaking into his own smile.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, Pete. I’m real.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest fic I've ever completed, which is exciting! I'm proud of it.  
> If I messed up some details about any past MCU events at all, I'm sorry, totally my mistake, I tried very hard to have everything be accurate
> 
> Thanks for reading!! :)


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